Muse
by Foolish Mortal
Summary: A GabrielxKuro supplement to Courageous Fire: In times of instability and strife, a simple book of poetry forms a bond between its writer and a stranger that will leave neither unchanged.
1. Dovecote

_MUSE (MUSE)_

_A source of inspiration, a guiding genius._

**Disclaimer: I do not own Juvenile Orion or any of its characters, especially the ones in this story: Gabriel-san and Kuro-san.**

**Important Note**: This fic is a supplement to my other fic Courageous Fire. If you want to find out the rest of what happens to Kuro and the G-man, you'll have to read C.F. If you don't like the KusakabexItsuki paring in C.F, just send me a message and I'll send you parts of the paragraphs from C.F with explanations and stuff. Still…I'd like it if you read my other fic. (shuffles feet shyly)

**Note to people who have already read C.F: **Hi, Foolish Mortal again. I had a whole spiel on Gabriel and Kuro's story in Courageous Fire; I've looked and looked and tried everything but I don't have any room to put it into the fic. Since it's so much about Su and Kusakabe after a point, I felt it was distracting to put it in. Anyway, this is just a fic-out (a part of the fic cut out of the main story, a bit like a deleted scene, hmm?) but it will you'll get to know more about Gabriel and Kuro and what's not to like about that?

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* * *

A carriage clattered past and Kuro Sakaurai just managed to leap nimbly aside before he was assaulted with filthy street water.

How beautiful a rainfall could be if one had not the ill fortune to live in the city. Unfortunately, with the advent of a sudden early spring shower, all he could hope for was a day of mincing around puddles swimming with muck.

'_It is my heritage to look up into the rapturous heavens as my ancestors have.'_

"'Ah, but these rude city lights bar me from the stars,'" Sakaurai whispered and his hand convulsively clenched the slim book that was tucked into his coat pocket. He loved that poem especially. He loved them all. The book's softly worn softly creased pages attested to that.

He was attracted to its verses and rhyme as helplessly as a moth drew itself to flame. The poetry had a unique texture to him; he felt as if it had spun itself out of the very fabric of his soul. He felt as if the book had been written singularly for him.

Miscellany, the book was called and within a few weeks of its release, it had quickly become the most popular works in the city- nay, in the _country._ And yet, Sakaurai was sure the book did not sound something within the public as it did within him. The poetry understood him, he thought, The poet understood him, knew him better than he knew himself.

The poet.

Such a person of intellect must he be. A divine vessel of passion, life, and everything else that divides human from automaton. Sometimes, when he could not sleep, Sakaurai would lay awake dreaming of what he would say to such an artist, were they ever to meet. Think of his delighted surprise when he discovered the poet lived close by. In his own city, to be very precise.

Gabriel Merethi.

He had finally summoned up the courage to pay the poet a visit. He wanted to…he wanted to tell Merethi what the poetry did to him and how it called out to him like an old friend. The words would pour like bright ribbon from Sakaurai's mouth.

He turned left into a series of apartments and nervously walked up the flight of steps to the front door. He rang the bell and peered up at the tall narrow ordinary looking flat wedged between two others that looked just like it.

An ubiquitous servant answered the door after a few moments.

"I am…er." Sakaurai cleared his throat. "I am here to see Mr. Merethi."

"Is he expecting you?" she asked indifferently. Her face bespoke rough lines and hard labour.

"Ah, no, but…well, I was hoping…"

Her dark eyes lost some of their impassiveness at his comical distress. "Come in. I'll see if he is available to meet you."

He breathed in the soft scent of dried flower petals and dusty velvet that lingered like rich perfume in the air. As he followed the woman down the hall, he saw all the windows were masked in heavy dark curtains that permitted almost no light in.

"Wait here," she told him as they approached a small rectangular couch placed in a small niche at one side of the corridor wall; the two marble pillars that stood sentinel on either side protruded outward like teeth. She walked on as he settled himself into the chair.

_Hello, Mr. Merethi_, he rehearsed. _I am Kuro Sakaurai; I read your Miscellany. I…it spoke to my soul…I…_

He cursed softly. His stomach was busy tying itself into knots.

He looked around. The house had the perpetual feeling of grime and dust no matter how diligently the maids may have cleaned the floors and windows. It even had a musty antique smell to it. Everything was hard lines, dull colours, and cold drafts. It did not feel…lived-in.

_What sort of man bears living in a place like this?_ he wondered. Even the electric lamps had a shadow to them. Even the sunlight had a dusky blue-grey tint.

Sakaurai heard soft footsteps clatter down the stairs and trail up the hall. He did not notice their approach until they stopped only a few paces from where he stood. He looked beside him and noticed an elfin figure hovering near the stone pillar. His skin looked grey against the pallid marble stonework but against Sakaurai's warm colour, it was smooth ivory.

He rose from the seat. _Mr. Merethi?_

Gabriel Merethi's black woollen jacket hung on his frame too loosely. He was pale-eyed and hollow-cheeked. Pale-cheeked and hollow-eyed. His long pale untrimmed hair fell past his waist like a woman's. Sakaurai half-expected to find things caught up in it: feathers and leaves- flower petals. Thorns. Mice with tiny noses and soft velvety ears. Bejewelled little spiders weaving translucent nets to bind back his hair. Merethi's face was seemed to be modelled after the archaic statues that only existed in museums now- the high cheekbones, the elegantly sloping nose, the full lips. Still, there was something uncertain and tentative about his expression, as if he were a trapped bird.

_A bird trapped in his own house,_ Sakaurai thought to himself.

When the poet saw that he had been noticed, he stepped back into the meagre shadows the pillar cast; eyeing Sakaurai for a moment, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Who are you?" His voice was like a vapour melting on a chilled windowpane. He pursed his mouth in a tight line, as though he believed if his lips parted, poetry might spill out and he feared it.

Looking at him, Sakaurai began to believe the old adage that a virtuoso's gift fed on its host's soul. "Kuro Sakaurai," he answered; his voice sounded warm in the frigid vault-like house and for a moment it surprised them both. He shook the man's hand and thought that the poet had fingers of cold alabaster marble. The black jacket's sleeves bunched up at Merethi's spindly arms and fell over his thin wrists, yet his grip was strong and sure.

"Come, we will talk in the parlour," he replied and smiled faintly, like the glimmer of dawn cresting over a rough horizon.

Merethi had a fragile wasted sort of elegance, Sakaurai thought as he followed the poet into another room. An invalid's fluid poise. A starry cascade of hair sprayed over the poet's narrow slight shoulders as he descended the small flight of stairs to a parlour with tall curtained windows.

The room's fireplace was dark and dead but chairs clustered around it and hoped for warmth. Merethi gestured for him to take the couch; he seated himself across, perching on the chair like a figurehead on a ship or a dove tensed for flight. The rays of light peeping through the curtains made his skin translucent and luminous; it had such a taut fragile quality about it that Sakaurai thought it would crumple at a touch.

_Is this the payment his art demands of him? His life-force, his soul?_

"What is it you wished to speak with me about?" Merethi asked finally in a soft voice like a musicbox tune.

_A melody like that could lull anyone to sweet dreams._ "I…" Gone were the dramatic words. "I…" Gone were the bright flowery syllables of praise. "I wish to seek employment here." The words startled him.

"Merethi's brows arched. "Indeed?" He looked playfully amused. The edges of his mouth quirked; Sakaurai held his breath but the rice-paper skin did not tear. "I have enough servants under my pay. What need would I have of you?"

"If you cannot see it, then perhaps it is too late." A part of Sakaurai was shocked at his own brazen tone but his mouth was working automatically.

"Is it so?" His soft sad gold eyes gleamed merrily. "Very well, then. I give you one day's probation, after which I have the liberty to either choose to take you on or send you off back whence you came. Is that to your liking, Mr. Sakaurai?"

He only smiled back. "Which day?" he inquired.

"Tomorrow morning."

"When shall I come?"

"Eight o'clock should suffice."

"Yes."

Silence was crystallising like snow in the air. Merethi tilted his head. "I do not know a thing about you, Mr. Sakaurai."

"No."

"For all I know, I could be harbouring a criminal."

"I am no criminal."

"I'm sure you would tell me if you were," Merethi said reasonably. "Tell me, why should I hire you?"

"I live on your poetry as man lives on food." The words were out of his mouth before he could swallow them down. His eyes widened in shock. "I…I apologise! I did not mean to-"

Merethi laughed. It sounded like bells. "So you come for my poetry, not for my pay?" His eyes faded. "If only I had poetry to give," he murmured to himself.

"Sir?" Sakaurai asked curiously.

Merethi looked back to him and an odd strained smile came to his face. "Tomorrow morning, yes? Till then."

It took a moment for Sakaurai to realise that the poet had risen from his chair to see him out.

"Er, yes," he answered bewilderedly. _He certainly has a gift for ridding himself of people._

In a few spacings, he was standing on Merethi's doorstep with the door shut firmly in his face. _What…what did I just promise him?_ he wondered as he looked into a curtained window. _I cannot ask him, for I do not know, myself._

Frowning, he turned away into the bustling street. Halfway home, he noticed that the scent of dried flower petals and dusty velvet still clung to his person.

* * *

-

Gabriel: Why did you speed up so many parts of the fic?

FM: I was lazy.

K-chan: Just tell the reviewers you didn't want to bore them.

FM: Good deal.

Gabriel: Review!

FM: Indeed.


	2. In Search of Elegance

_DIVINE AFFLATUS (uh-FLAY-tus)_

_A creative inspiration, as that of a poet; a divine imparting of knowledge._

**Disclaimer: I do not own Juvenile Orion or any of its characters.**

Indeed, it has been a long time since I've updated. If you look, yes, names have been changed! Thanks, friends from Mindbreakers Anonymous; I couldn't have found Kuro's actual last name otherwise.

Note to Readers: Forget what I said in the last chapter; Kuro's last name is _Sakaurai_.

For anyone who thought there was 'symbolism' in Gabriel's name, -some of you actually Googled it, didn't you? _Admit it_- nope, sorry. Merethi is just an ancient noble house name from my original fiction. I apologise for dashing your hopes.

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* * *

Sakaurai knew every inch of the place by two weeks. 

He explored the cool dark cellar that was stocked with fat bottles of preserves, rough sacks of potatoes, opaque dusty bottles of ageing wine, papery onions that gleamed in their shells, and fat golden cheeses tied in their cloths. He explored the warm welcoming kitchen that had flour ground into the grout between the tiles and an old dilapidated window that had planking across it because it would not shut; he met the sociable motherly cook, who told him rather quietly of Gabriel Merethi's deficient appetite and how he was always so thin.

Sakaurai had tested each squeak of every stair and run his fingers down the dull curlicue hand rails; he had spent hours staring at the old oil portraits in their gold dust-riddled frames. He had counted the teeth in the stone lion's mouth. He explored the library and taken note of water-stained books and fallen bookshelves; he had rested on once-plump couches with broken arms and read from rare books whose covers were ravaged by time and neglect. He spoke with the maids, who told him about Gabriel Merethi's odd schedule; they told him about how he would stay up till dawn and then sleep until noon. They told him about the long hours Merethi spent shut up in his room working on is poetry. They told him that Merethi rarely left the house.

Sakaurai had walked through the parlours and tripped over unsuspected table legs and rug tassels. He knew every piece of unwieldy heavy furniture with wobbling legs and every mouldering tapestry chair; he knew every rug or cushion where mice had eaten through the fabric. He knew every stained upholstery and muddy footrest; he knew every loose screw and jutting crooked nail. He knew every unpolished candelabrum decorated with beads of hardened wax, every unfilled grimy oil lamp with black-burnt cotton wicks, and every neglected electric lamp in its dirty sconce.

He had explored every hallway, every closet, every suite of rooms, and every hidden niche and corner. He knew every un-oiled door that had fallen victim to peeling faded paint, he knew the rooms with elegant wallpaper that had yellowed and sagged, he discovered loose floorboards and chipped trimming, he looked at panelling whose paint had fragmented, revealing large swathes of old ugly paint underneath. He toured rooms with beds whose canopies had fallen apart; he found windows with broken glass and vases with dead flowers decaying in putrid water. He inspected the lamps that did not work and the pens that had burst, spitting gobbets of ink over faded stationary and dusty writing tables; he found sinks with rigid faucets. He tested doorknobs and locks.

And all this while the master of the house was up in his room, unawares.

-

"Sakaurai, good to see you."

"And you." Sakaurai caught the glass that was sent across the table and drained it. "Thank you; I needed that."

"It seemed so. You look terrible."

"It's my day job, Iwate."

"Tough?"

"It's…depressing," Sakaurai admitted. He put his violin case on the stool beside him. "So, how is the crowd?"

"Not bad tonight." Iwate grinned. "Who knows, you may earn enough to buy those new shoes you've told me about so much."

"Well, spring means rain, and I can't have it seeping through the holes in my shoes," Sakaurai chuckled. He usually stuffed newspaper in his shoes to alleviate the problem but there was only so much one could do.

"Well, good luck." Iwate nodded to him politely and turned away to serve a customer who was coming his way.

Sakaurai grabbed his violin case and scrutinised the tavern crowd as he walked by. The room was illuminated by candles, for such was the charm of the place; the only part of the tavern with electricity was the kitchen and the boarding rooms upstairs. He had worked in this bar since he came to the city; it was like a second home to him. Sometimes he had picked up side jobs for extra money when the bills were tight, but he had never deserted this place. Never. It was part of his foundation.

He sat in his usual chair and scanned the crowd of customers as they ate and talked. Some of the women at the bar peered over at him; they were probably new to the place, otherwise they would have been used to him and paid him no heed.

Ah, there was the vice-mayor having the drink he always did- two parts juice, one part Liemi liquor. He always sat at the same table. A man of habits, that one.

There was Tochigi with a woman, a different woman almost every time, Sakaurai had come to find. He shook his head in disgust but said nothing.

Carefully, he unpacked his instrument and made sure it was tuned. The newer customers stopped to listen to him but the others continued on with their business. Sakaurai wasn't offended for he knew he was only there to add to the atmosphere. The crowd's approval would display itself by the amount of money they gave for him along with their regular bill. The gods knew he needed it nowadays; Gabriel Merethi still hadn't paid him yet.

Sakaurai struck up a cool soothing tune and hoped the money purse would be heavy tonight.

-

"Good morning." He nodded pleasantly to the maid who answered the door. Today, the Merethi house excited him; it was time to begin work.

"Do you have any leftover newspaper?" he called over to her over his shoulder.

"Newspaper? I believe so; Mr. Merethi receives one daily though he…doesn't read it." She pursed her lips at this odd behaviour, but she had grown used to it. Her employer was an odd man, but then again, all poets were odd in their own way; it was why they could write such things that fascinated the world.

"Good," Sakaurai answered enthusiastically. "I'll need it!"

She hurried after him. "Whatever for?"

A week ago on his tour of the house, he had come upon a portion of hallway that was the colour of decaying plum-velvet, and he had made note of it. Today, he took down picture frames, removed rugs, dismantled curtains, and lined the floor with newspaper; he spent the whole afternoon with an old long handled brush and painted the walls buttery golden cream. A quick swipe with a terry cloth set the picture frames glowing like burnished gold. The maids helped him beat years' worth of dust from the neglected hall rugs; the woven colours now shone bright and bold. The next morning's excursion yielded light cotton curtains that let the sunlight through the windows. Sakaurai bade the maids wash the old heavy winter curtains and stow them away until they were needed.

He looked on it now, two days later; it looked so inviting now. So pleasing. He was proud of it. The smell of new paint had temporarily banished the dank musty-sweet smell his nose had grown used to. It was only one part of the house, but it was good enough to get him started.

Those days after, his arms ached from repainting halls and carrying heavy picture frames. Some of the maids grumbled about extra sweeping and did their best to avoid him but some genuinely helped him as best they could. Perhaps, he thought, they longed to see this house put to rights as well. Merethi had never given any of the maids specific instructions so there was only so much they could do to keep the house neat.

The week ended and only a small section of the first floor was done. _Only a tiny section_, Sakaurai thought dourly and thought of the kitchen and the parlours and the front hall that still had to be attended to. There were paint drippings in his hair and on his shoes. His _old_ shoes with the holes in them; Sakaurai had spent the money he earned at the bar to pay for the paint and the curtains.

"Here you are, Sakaurai," the cook said kindly and placed a steaming cup of tea on the table before him. He had dragged an old table and chairs from the attic; only the gods knew what it had been doing up there. After repairing and cleaning it up a bit, he had put it in the kitchen, where it had found its true purpose. The servants enjoyed sitting here while they ate their afternoon meals. They-

Wait.

A tread on the stair. Those stairs always squeaked at the slightest movement.

Sakaurai put his cup down, but then on second thought, he took the cup and saucer with him as he walked around to the hall. The light walls seemed to surround the bony stark black figure that stood there staring up at them. Gabriel Merethi's face was highlighted by the soft light from the windows. His thin hands were buried in the pockets of his black jacket.

_If he were not so sickly, he might be the colour of those golden cream walls,_ Sakaurai thought fleetingly.

A single step. Then another. The hallway rang with the hollow sound of Merethi's shoes. He walked slowly, taking time to appreciate every new improvement and change.

"What is he…oh." The cook paused and looked at Merethi in surprise.

"Do you suppose he approves of it?" Sakaurai asked worriedly.

"I do not know," she told him. "Er…Mr. Merethi!"

The poet did not take his eyes off the hall. He did not respond. The cook passed a bread roll to him wordlessly, and he absently ate it without seeming to know it was there. Sakaurai looked down at the plate in the cook's hand. How long had it been since his employer had eaten? Surely not this afternoon, nor this morning…

Just as wilful children can be persuaded to do anything if one distracts them from it enough, Sakaurai and the cook took advantage of Merethi's distracted mind to make him eat the rolls and tarts and steamed vegetables that he should have eaten for lunch that day.

The cook left with a pleased smile and an empty plate. Sakaurai stayed at his place in the hallway and nursed his cup of tepid tea.

Merethi stopped in front of a cleaned electric lamp that mingled with the warm sunlight and cast a vibrant brightness to the portraits and curtains. His mouth opened and Sakaurai's fingers tightened on the rim of his saucer.

"Oh my," Merethi said at last, his eyes glowing. "Oh my."

Sakaurai smiled into his teacup and his foul mood vanished. This was reward enough.

He was looking forward to fixing up the rest of the first floor in the next few weeks.

He was looking forward to it.

* * *

- 

Yays. Extreme Makeover: JO Home Edition. Well, not…completely…

I don't really have much to say. Er, thanks, old room in our house; we fixed you up and it helped me with a lot of the imagery I had to do for this chapter…

Old Room: Review!

FM: ...Thanks.

FM's Room: That's so nice!

Old Room: Oh my gods, a talking room!


	3. Simulacrum

_DIVINE AFFLATUS (uh-FLAY-tus)_

_A creative inspiration, as that of a poet; a divine imparting of knowledge._

**Disclaimer: I do not own Juvenile Orion but I own the name of the city, Gaaz. It's another city from my original fiction.**

This chapter is thanks to the song Rei I from the Neon Genesis Evangelion: Refrain of Evangelion soundtrack. It helped me get some of the parts of this chapter the way I wanted them.

-

* * *

He came back. He always came back. When he left everyday, there was always another door repaired or an awkward table that was taken apart or stashed in the attic. The house was changing.

Sakaurai had not known he had grown used to the house's musty-sweet smell until he whitewashed the walls. The maids had not known they had grown used to the dirty house till they had seen the dust beaten from the rugs and wiped from the furniture. Hell, the whole hired help had not known they had grown used to their employer's odd habits: the newspaper never read, the food never eaten, the long hours inside the house. It was so easy to grow used to Gabriel Merethi.

It was so dangerous to grow used to Gabriel Merethi. One might spend a month with him, or a year, then suddenly wake to find that there were holes in the clothing, bones sticking out from the wrists and a fine layer of dust upon the skin. Like a fairytale; a princess that wakes to find a hundred years passed and cobwebs as her bedroom canopy.

Sakaurai imagined Gabriel Merethi lying on his bed, staring up listlessly to the ceiling as he watched birds and spiders construct his canopy. Sakaurai imagined the roof cracking and letting in beads of rain to decorate the spiderwebs; he imagined the birds swooping over Merethi to pluck out strands of his golden hair to add to their twigs and leaves. He imagined the spiders spooling downward to make curtains, the birds following. He imagined them encasing the poet in a box, a chrysalis. A tomb.

Suddenly, Sakaurai was frightened. Horribly irrationally frightened.

"I…I might look over the third floor today," he told one of the maids and dashed up the stairs. Down he fled, past the storage closets and guest suite. Past crumbling wallpaper and three-legged basin tables.

"Mr. Merethi?" He knocked on the door jerkily, loudly. "Mr. Merethi!"

The door opened and Gabriel Merethi found his employee leaning against the doorframe, breath coming in short.

"Ah…Kuro Sakaurai, was it?" the poet asked mildly.

"Room…canopy…" Sakaurai gasped, wheezing. "…sp-spiders…"

"I see you've found the cellar," Merethi commented dryly.

Sakaurai laughed, his breath steadying. "No! No, I…I was hoping I could look at your room and see if it needs fixing up."

"Very well," he replied and stepped aside to let him in.

Sakaurai stepped inside cautiously. He had secretly wondered what Merethi's room was like; it was his great workshop, after all. It was where he stayed up till dawn writing his poems.

He was surprised.

He had expected specimens flowers and leaves wilting on a desk, forgotten after brief hours of intense scrutiny. He had expected hundreds of papers and scraps tacked onto the walls, some words and ideas circled in bold red ink; he had expected untidy stacks of books piled against the walls. He had expected open windows, so that birds and butterflies could come and go as they pleased. He had expected half-written journals lying open on top of Merethi's bedstand and ink spots on his sheets and pillows that could not be purged.

It was bare.

Nothing.

A plain chair and a desk with a single dirty electric lamp. An empty dusty bookshelf whose shelves had fallen. A plain bed with thin uncoloured sheets and a nubby blanket.

And then,

Nothing.

Merethi had never parted his heavy mismatched curtains to let the breeze through. He had never hoarded bits of twigs and silken petals in a drawer of his desk. He had never shared his bed with someone warm and smiling who smelled of amber and afternoon sunlight. He had never stayed awake reading from his favourite book or manuscript.

Sakaurai wanted to sink down to his knees and weep. Even his own room, poor and sparse as it was, had more joy to it than this. How can a man live this way, he wanted to know. How can he write so enchantingly and live so austerely?

No, not austerely. That would have implied that Merethi had willed himself to a monk's existence. No, this room…it had nothing. It felt nothing. Merethi had not taken the simplest effort to live.

Sakaurai stole a look at him. How could he have first thought Merethi handsome? He was too thin and pallid, like a convalescent. Every movement was careful and controlled, as if he were made of porcelain or fine glass and was bound to fall apart at any moment. His hair was ragged and faded. His face…it was too lean. Sakaurai had once thought it resembled an archaic statue from a museum; now he found that the likeness was too much. He half-expected to find a century's old fissure near Merethi's eyebrow. He half-expected to find dust on his nose.

How could he have thought Merethi had such poise, such grace? He had nothing of the kind. No, he had a tragic elegance. A thing beautiful because it is fleeting, because of the dangerous intoxicating knowledge that it can come unglued at any moment and cease to be.

Sakaurai thought again of the spider-spun sarcophagus and thought that the birds and insects would be entombing a doll. A thing. Any prince who came to kiss Merethi awake would bruise his lips on a cold mouth of marble and gouge out his eyes upon eyelashes of needles and pins.

Sakaurai turned back to face Merethi and was afraid of him.

"Well?" Merethi said.

His heart lurched. The marble lips were moving. It was a gross parody of a human, but he knew it was just a doll. A monster. He cringed from its cold sightless eyes. They were just little orbs of brass held inside eerily perfect eyesockets.

"I…I…"

"It is a bit shabby, I must admit," the simulacrum said and began to walk about, blinking its brass eyes and chewing its synthetic lip in a perfect imitation, but Sakaurai knew of the gears and cogwheels spinning beneath its skin.

He watched the doll warily. "N-No…"

A flash.

Sakaurai blinked. For a moment…for a moment Gabriel Merethi had been…lovely again. For a moment, his fear had melted.

"I suppose you might repair the bookshelf or move it to the library," the doll sighed and fingered a strand of its lustreless hair in a human-like gesture that was completely wrong. Sakaurai felt sickened just watching it.

"Perhaps," he replied, scanning the place where the doll had been walking a moment ago.

Ah.

There it was.

A patch of sunlight creeping through the crack in one of the curtains. He walked towards it and inspected the curtains. "Why are your windows always shut?"

"Hmm?"

Sakaurai threw open the heavy smothering curtains; the clean morning sun was shining through the bare dusty windowpanes.

The doll put its hand over its mouth and coughed hoarsely. "What are you doing?"

But it was not a doll. It was Gabriel Merethi, as lovely as day. His hair was still ragged, but it had bright bits of light entangled in it. His skin looked dusty, but pleasingly soft to the touch. His eyes had a brilliance to them. His mouth was like a scrap of pink satin.

The rusty latch was curled up like a finger over the knob. Sakaurai undid it gratefully and the shutters swung out lazily and smacked against the outside walls with a clatter. A warm breeze came through the window and stirred Merethi's hair.

"That feels much better," Sakaurai remarked, pleased to see the doll had vanished for now. It frightened him more than he could have imagined. He knew he would have nightmares about it tonight; he would jolt out of bed in a cold sweat, screaming silently. He did not think of it for now.

"I suppose it does," Merethi agreed warily. He looked on curiously as Sakaurai dragged his desk chair over. Speculatively, he looked at the bookshelf and wondered when Sakaurai would fix it up and take it down to the library. It would be the best place for it, he decided after a long look.

"Sakaurai, I-"

His employee had disappeared.

Merethi ran to the window. "Sakaurai!"

"Yes?" His silken unruly hair fell around his impish upside-down face as he peered down from the edge of the roof.

Merethi went ashen. "Sakaurai, come down from there this instant, damn it!"

"It _is_ pleasant up here."

"Do you think I'm joking?" Merethi demanded frantically. "I said, come down!"

"I wonder if you would rid yourself of that poet's block if you came up here."

"_What_?"

Sakaurai grinned. "Come now, Mr. Merethi; what else but dreary poetry will come from being cloistered up in a dreary house?"

"I have no block!"

"Then why haven't you been able to write a scrap in months, hmm?"

Merethi scowled. "What makes you think that?"

"You have nothing in your rooms."

"So?"

"Your last book was published three years ago."

A long silence.

"Come out onto the ledge, at the least," Sakaurai cajoled.

The poet thought of it for a second; he was curious, in spite of himself. Slowly, he boosted himself up from the chair to the window. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out onto the wide window ledge.

And saw the wall under the sill drop away to the street three stories below.

His gold eyes widened in horror. "Oh my sweet gods!" he cried out.

"Turn around," Sakaurai said gently. "Do not look down."

"I…I.."

"Slowly…slowly.."

Merethi reached around for the edge of a roof shingle and froze as a wayward wind stirred his jacket. To his imagination, it had almost blown him over.

"Keep on," Sakaurai said encouragingly.

He moved one centimetre. Then another. Carefully. _Carefully_. One…small…movement…at a time. His heart was flapping frantically like a bird with a broken wing. Turn one foot. Then the other. One. Then the other. Do not look down, no. Move. Slightly. Turn. Slightly.

After what seemed like eternity, he felt the roof under his fingers. He clung to it like drowning man clings to land. He looked up and saw Sakaurai crouched above him. "Not so terrible, eh?" he asked brightly; Merethi scoffed sardonically but his employee smiled back amiably, not insulted in the least. "Give me your hand."

"Why?" Merethi asked suspiciously.

"Too many questions," he chided. "Small wonder you cannot write anything; you think too much. Come on!"

"We shall fall to our deaths."

"Maybe," Sakaurai agreed amiably. He held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Merethi accepted it.

"Ah!" he cried as his balance swung dangerously outward; his feet shifted on the smooth stone ledge. His other hand clenched the roof edge until his fingers turned white.

"It is nothing, it is nothing," Sakaurai told him soothingly. He took his other arm. "Here, I have you; you will not fall. I shall tell you when to leap-"

"-_Leap_?"

"It is not much of a distance. Trust me, Mr. Merethi- I'll hoist you up, I swear on it. Come now, from count of three."

"I cannot do this," the poet exclaimed. "I'm going back." At that moment, the back of one foot titled off the ledge. Merethi gasped and shut his eyes tightly.

"Steady," Sakaurai told him encouragingly. "Steady now. One."

"No no. I have never-"

"Two."

"I cannot- you must understand. Truly."

"Three."

Merethi held his breath and leapt up from the window ledge. Instead of plummeting downward helplessly into the busy street, he instead found himself being lifted to the roof with great ease. He felt the warmth of sun-baked tile against his arms and scrambled up. In a moment of panic, one of his feet slipped on the shingles and he banged his knee very painfully.

"Steady," Sakaurai said and Merethi felt a strong grip on his elbow. "Come on; there's a good spot." Then, a laugh. "It would be easier if you opened your eyes."

Merethi blinked. "Oh."

He could see the bustling city for blocks around. People, wagons, and animals went about their business unaware of two pairs of eyes watching them from a great height; the whole city was their theatre. A breeze whipped up, carrying the smell of harsh chimney smoke, sweet overripe fruit, pungent street litter, and cool bakery bread.

It was his city, his dearest. Gaaz.

He gasped softly. "Sakaurai, look." A great marble blue expanse stretched over his head like a god's ceiling. "You can see the sky from up here."

"Yes," he replied, smiling at his employer's wonder.

I never knew…" the poet murmured. "The streets and alleys always blot out the sun and the sky. The city is oppressive, I've always thought; the buildings bear down on me as if they mean to snatch away my wings."

It was the other's turn to be enchanted. "You _are_ a poet," he breathed. When Merethi gave him a curious glance, Sakaurai lowered his eyes self-consciously for a moment, but then his fathomless dark eyes snapped up again. "Do you really have wings, sir?" he asked jauntily.

To his surprise, Merethi coloured hotly. "Whatever would give you such an idea? Wings! Really." He shook his head. _What would…_

He thought about it for a moment. Carefully finding a secure footing, Merethi rose to his feet uneasily but found that he could hold his balance well enough; encouraged, he slowly spread out his arms. The sun stroked his face like an old friend. The wind buffeted him playfully; it teased golden strands from his hair tie and they swirled around his face like bright ribbons. He felt weightless- his heart was a ticklish burst of radiance that sent streams of glowing of amber liquor through his veins. It warmed him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was-

"-Flying again," he whispered sadly. Tears pricked at his eyes but the breeze's gentle fingers dried them before they spilled down his cheeks.

"What?"

"Hmm?" He blinked and looked down. Sakaurai was staring up at him with an odd expression on his face. "Nothing." He sat down with a sigh. For a moment, they both gazed out into the horizon of buildings and sky.

"Thank you," the poet said finally. "Thank you for showing me this. I feel…" He inhaled deeply and broke out into a dazzling smile. "Inspired." Suddenly industrious, he searched around in the pockets of his jacket and found an old red notebook he had almost forgotten about. A quick search in his other pockets relinquished a battered looking pencil, and he began scribbling rapidly.

Sakaurai stretched out onto the warm shingles with his arms folded behind his head and watched his employer for a moment.

Merethi was craning over the notepad resting on his drawn up knees. His pen scripted on and on as if possessed, and his eyes had a soft far away look; Sakaurai thought that if Merethi turned to him now, the poet would not recognise him. Those gold eyes would see bits of words making up his fluttering strands of dark hair. He would touch a verse outlining the contours of Sakaurai's cheekbone and brow- rhymes in the curve of his soft eyelashes; he would taste a sonnet in the cupid's bow of his lip.

Sakaurai must have fallen asleep for when he awoke the young morning sunlight had ripened into a heavy glare the tint and texture of peaches. The early sun had highlighted strands of soft honey and amber in Merethi's pale hair, but now his hair was the colour of liquid gold so hot that it was blanched white in some places.

"Good afternoon," Merethi said without glancing up from his writing.

Afternoon?" Sakaurai asked. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Through noon," his employer replied. "It is near teatime."

"Have you not eaten since morning?" _Ah, but he would not risk climbing down by himself,_ he realised as he remembered the desperate way Merethi had clutched his hand despite the nominal distance that spanned from the sill to the roof. Abruptly, he felt tremendously guilty for dozing off and leaving his employer to his own devices. "I apologi-"

"-No need." He chuckled ruefully. "I did not notice the time passing. I have been rather caught up with my work."

More than half the notebook was crammed with writing. Caught up, indeed.

"But Mr. Merethi," he protested in dismay. "You still should have woken me."

"I would never." Merethi smiled gently. "I only wish I could sleep so peaceably." He abandoned his notebook for a moment; he rested his elbows on his knees and propped up his chin in his hands. "What did you dream?"

"I…I do not remember; I do not remember dreams well," Sakaurai replied slowly, thinking it an odd sort of question.

"You were smiling in your sleep," the poet told him quietly.

Sakaurai shrugged, uneasy that he had been so thoroughly scrutinised, unawares. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but…"The sky is clear today," he remarked instead and squinted up. "We must come up again sometime to cloud-gaze. My brother and I used to pass our leisure time that way."

"I would like that," Merethi replied.

"So," –Sakaurai brushed himself off- "Are you ready to go back?"

Merethi grew decidedly pale but stowed away his notebook and pen and accepted Sakaurai's hand trustingly.

He discovered that the distance down wasn't as great as before- it was only a few feet, at the most.

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**Review if it pleases you. It pleases me much.**


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